by Kim Knox
“I never tested them.”
“Good.” His mouth covered hers, his tongue cool and tasting completely of her.
Ceta groaned and stroked her tongue against his, meltingly slow kisses that curled heat down to her toes. Iason’s hot palm ran along her thigh, lifting it, easing his own thigh under to press hard muscle against her aching pussy. She arched into him, unable to stop her need to push hard, faster— Iason grinned, his fingers slipping over her thigh, distracting her. “Slow, Ceta.”
“Isn’t this driving you insane?”
He pulled in a heavy breath and his hand slipped from her thigh to play over her mouth. “I want this time to be different, special.” His shadowed face tightened chest. “Just us.”
Ceta’s eyes burned as unexpected emotion tightened her throat. Iason wiped at her cheek and she sucked in air. He was right. She didn’t want to think. She wanted to feel him, them. Threading her fingers through his hair, she urged his mouth down to kiss him again.
Iason sighed, matching the deep strokes of her tongue. The press of his hot, hair-roughened skin over hers, his taste, his intoxicating scent wove the tension in her belly tighter. He eased her thigh up and teased his cock over her, sliding the blunt head down over her wetness.
The first push of his cock arched her spine as a flare of orgasm gripped her, her soft cry breaking free. Iason held her calf over his hip and slid deep. For an endless moment they both stilled. Ceta willed her eyes open and met his gaze, the need and the bitter knowledge that their time was finite churning through both of them.
Tears burned, escaping to run cold over her temple. “Love me, Iason.”
He closed his eyes and pain creased his forehead. “I already do,” he murmured.
Chapter Eight
Ceta stared at him, the bloom of heat in her chest catching her unprepared. “You…”
“I love you.” His hips rolled and the raw sensation forced her to cry out. He brushed his mouth over hers. “It makes no sense.” The slight curve of his lips into a smile had her echoing him. “It doesn’t, but I do.” His fingers tightened above her ankle and he thrust again, his soft groan brushing warm breath over her lips. “You wanted me?”
“I want you.”
Ceta wrapped her arm over his shoulder, gripping the smooth, hard muscle as her tongue teased his, seeking to deepen the kiss. His slow push into her body, the agonizing pleasure of his withdrawal tightened the threads of orgasm low in her belly.
Every slow stroke heated her blood and pulled her tighter, closer to her blinding release. His incredible control, the knowledge that he exercised it for her burned through Ceta. And he loved her. That thought elicited a soft moan and her hips meeting the slow push of his. It was insane. The attraction, the affection made no sense, but at that moment, with her body pressed against his, his strength at her command, being together became…right.
His kiss eased, his lips capturing hers in little teases. “Ceta, stop thinking.”
She smiled and rolled her hips under him, causing both of them to groan. “Is that better?”
“Yes.” His fingers played along her calf, before he thrust harder. “Thank you.” The words were a growl. She lay open to him and the hard rub of him against her clitoris as he took up a steadier pace had the thickened threads of orgasm winding through her flesh.
“Faster,” she murmured, her teeth nipping at his collarbone.
“Ceta…”
He rasped her name against her ear and she shivered, the trembling need for him to break his control and pound into her spiraling. “I want you.” She urged her hips up, meeting his next thrust, breaking into his rhythm. “Love me, fuck me.”
Iason groaned. “I promised…”
Ceta pushed hard against him, shifting her hips, and his fingers on her calf tightened in reflex. She sucked in a quick, calming breath, the need for him fraying her nerves. “This is our decision, not anyone else’s.”
“Are you sure?”
The tremor in his voice, his need to do exactly what she was asking of him, curved her smile against his hot, damp skin. “Can we stop talking?”
Iason’s soft laughter warmed affection through her. Damn, she liked this man. But her thoughts scattered as he buried himself in her…and then increased his pace.
Ceta clung to him, meeting his wild pace, fire sparking under her sensitized skin. The first flickers of her release flashed through her body, her spine arching, holding him, forcing him to change the angle of his thrust— Her mind splintered, fragmented under a searing burst of heat and overwhelming joy. Ceta cried out, losing herself in her release, distantly aware of Iason growling, pulling her hard to him, and his body pressing down on hers as his orgasm surged through him.
Iason kissed her, a slow, languid slide of his tongue against hers as he eased free of her and settled her against him. Ceta wound her arms around his damp body, falling into the sweetness of his kiss. He pulled away with a sigh and rested his forehead against hers. “Time to sleep, Ceta,” he murmured.
She turned in his arms and Iason settled the sheets over them. His large hand cupped her breast while the other rested possessively over her stomach. The wild beat of her heart slowed. His warmth, his surrounding strength, comforted her and before the terror of what was to come gripped her, Ceta fell into a dreamless sleep.
*
“Ceta.”
The light brush of lips against hers eased her body into a slow, luxurious stretch. She smiled against the kinks and aches she found in her flesh. “Iason,” she murmured.
“You have to get dressed.”
Ceta froze. After an endless moment, she opened her eyes and found Iason staring down at her. He was dressed in his uniform, the light from the washroom making the burnished gold of his breastplate gleam. She held his gaze, and clung to the strength she found there. Willing down the cramps in her gut, she asked, “It’s time?”
Iason stepped back from the bed. “It is.”
“How…how long?”
“A four-hour gap.”
Ceta forced herself to sit up, her bare legs dropping over the side of the high mattress. She looked up and a small smile curved her mouth. “The ship’s working us hard.”
“Yes, she is.” His hand ran over the wild tumble of her hair and she leaned into his touch. “I thought we’d have more time.” He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “Wash quickly.”
She forced her feet to pace the short distance to the washroom, stopping at the open doorway. “What’s going to happen, Iason?”
He held her gaze and his calm, his control, eased down the threatened rush of panic. “I’m going to take care of you.”
She blinked. “What…?”
He guided her into the small room and opened the shower tube. “Wash, Ceta.”
The warm water of the tube shocked her skin. Its light spray cleansed her and she lifted her face to the jet of water. It soaked her hair, streaming down her back. She tried not to think, not to taste the fear crawling bitter and strong up from her stomach.
She jerked as the flow of water stopped. Iason wrapped a towel around her shoulders and rubbed it against her wet skin in quick, sure strokes. “I let you sleep,” he murmured. “I hate to say it, but we have to hurry.”
She took the towel and scrubbed her hair with it. Iason dropped back and followed her from the washroom. The rail with the clothes was full again, this time with the same clothes in a pure white silk. She reached up to unclip the little shorts but her hands shook.
Iason’s hands slid over hers, warm, steady, and he took them from her. “I’ll dress you.” He nodded toward the bed. “Sit down.”
Ceta dropped to the bed and stared at her feet, wanting to find a scrap of calm. She watched him slide the silk against her damp calves and push the clinging material up her thighs. Her fingers covered his as she tugged them over her backside, and their heat, their strength broke through her numbness. After fastening the belt, he turned to the rail and pulled free the top. He
slid it over her back and clasped it under her breasts. The boots and the coat followed.
“When the time comes…” Iason twitched a smile and brushed damp stands of hair back from her face, “choose me.”
“You?” Choosing him would mean… The knowledge chilled her, tightening her chest and making breathing hard. Her fingers curled into fists and her nails dug into her palms. “You want to be the one…the one…”
“To kill you. Yes.”
Ceta bit back a hysterical laugh. “You’re very calm.”
“Believe me, I’m not.” His gaze focused on her mouth, his thumb teasing her bottom lip. A smile tugged at his lips and its tightness hinted at the strain under his mask of calm. “But I can’t let another man do this.”
Ceta breathed past the pain in her chest. The whole thing was insane and the only way that she wanted to deal with it was to curl up into a ball on the rumpled bed and sob. But she couldn’t. Refusing would have her dead, another woman from the temple dead and Iason, Iason would die too. She had the power to keep him alive.
Unclenching her hand, she threaded her fingers through his and he held them too tight. “Thank you.”
The heavy weight of the cold manacle pressed against her wrist. It clanked as Iason locked it. “Time to go.”
Ceta willed herself to put one foot in front of the other and Iason squeezed her hand. The wall rasped open and he stepped through the oval into the dim corridor beyond. Its gentle, twisting slope took her too quickly to the opening arch of the domed throne room.
Iason hadn’t hurried, his pace slow, but it felt like simply a few heartbeats before the familiar decadent scent of the throne room smacked into her. Iason released her hand and strode forward, once more the paladin.
Exhausted, naked bodies surrounded the raised dais of the throne. Ceta stepped and stumbled over legs, arms, torsos, the sovereign’s favorites too spent to move from their path.
“Paladin, you surprise me.” Feodor rose from his throne and stretched his lithe body, his clinging suit moving with him, almost a living caress of his skin. Something about it repulsed Ceta and she snapped her gaze away. Hatred and fear roiled in her stomach and had her heart skittering, the fast, uneven beats dizzying her mind. “If I’d known you possessed such skill with these temple women I’d have studded you out a decade ago.”
“Yes, Master.”
A grin lined his voice. “My faithful Iason.” He stopped in front of her and his gloved hand pressed onto her shoulder. Ceta dropped to her knees, desperate to shrink away from his touch. “You’ve broken her so quickly.” His soft laughter stabbed at her. “I can almost taste her terror.”
“Is that important, Master?”
Feodor stilled and Ceta’s heart jumped. What was Iason doing asking questions of their sovereign?
“The ship and I have been bonded for a very long time, paladin. My palate has grown…weary, jaded. She tries to entertain me as best she can.”
Her gut knotted. So she was only entertainment— “Ceta Lars, open your mouth.”
Everything in her froze. Her time had come. The final spoon of soft, cool cream would kill her, and adrenalin shot around her body. She could run, and no doubt their sovereign would order Iason to shoot her. Maybe he would hesitate and then his loyalty, which Feodor had never had to question, would be in doubt.
More than her life would end if she bolted, and that thought kept her kneeling before the dark throne. Ceta closed her eyes and opened her mouth.
The first hints of vanilla and cinnamon wreathed around her. Yes, soon the terror gripping her would fade and she would think only about grabbing the nearest man and fucking him. Ice-cold metal touched her tongue and she teased the softness of the cream, the exotic taste sparking against her taste buds. Heat flared under her skin and the bite of fear eased, as she knew it would. The panicked pounding of her heart changed to a heavy thud of need and desire.
“Stand.”
The sovereign’s voice curled around her and without effort she obeyed. Fire licked under her skin, the soft silk of her costume a sensuous caress. She opened her eyes and found him staring at her. Something shone in the sovereign’s dark eyes, an eagerness mixed with…fear.
He traced a cool, gloved finger over her hot cheek, the contact stinging. “I’ll be ordering that more women like you are put up for selection.”
The hot pulse of lust faltered and the knowledge of what was to come gripped her. “Why, Master?”
His eyes narrowed. “Both of you seem full of questions.” Anger lurked under his words and his gaze flicked to Iason. “You told her what would happen here.”
Iason didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Master.”
Feodor’s lips quirked upward and that expression stabbed into her gut. Not the reaction she was expecting, not after Iason’s warnings. “You have a cruel streak I’ve never appreciated, paladin.” His gaze returned to Ceta. “When did you tell her?”
“After the first tasting, Master.”
He laughed, the sound sharp, nasty, and Ceta held down a shiver, not even the wildness of lust heating her flesh denying her sudden, terrifying doubt. Had everything with Iason been another game?
“Then you fucked her? And from the look on her face, made her trust you.” The sovereign stepped back from her, a smirk still cutting his too-beautiful face. “Ah paladin, you make me proud.” He wet his lips and the smirk deepened. “Turn around, Ceta Lars.” He lifted an eyebrow. “My favorites are exhausted. Your only choice is him.”
Ceta willed herself to turn around, need and fear swirling a chaotic mix through her flesh. Had Iason played her? Damn it, she couldn’t think straight. The manacle at her wrist shifted, weighed heavily as she faced Iason. The cold mask of the paladin stared back at her and the need to touch him made her fingers tremble.
“Feed him.”
Feodor wrapped her cold fingers around the spoon and she lifted it. She wanted the mask gone, to cling to the belief that he hadn’t made a fool of her and brought her to her death loving him. The spoon shook but she pressed it to his lush mouth. She couldn’t deny the liquid drop of heat low in her belly as he licked the pale cream from the golden bowl of the spoon.
Iason’s hard gaze gripped her and breathing became difficult, her heart straining. The first bright flare of lust fired through the darkness of his eyes and he closed the distance between them. Her need to touch him, pull him to her, warred with her desperate desire to run. She staggered back but the chain yanked at her wrist and realization hit her “This is what the chain’s for.”
A feral smile curled his lips. “Yes,” Iason said.
Her heart thudded in her ears and her breath came short and fast, but Ceta didn’t know if it was terror or excitement. His unchained hand attacked the buckles of his breastplate and her lust surged. “Here?” The question was strangled, her pussy tight, aching at the thought of Iason taking her in the throne room, in front of their sovereign.
Her eyes darted to him, Feodor licking the last of the glistening cream from the spoon. He would watch them, see the paladin fuck her and with this favorites exhausted, take his own pleasure from it. It was right, the three of them to bind in this ritual. Sparks danced through her flesh and she gasped. Feodor’s grin deepened. “Paladin?”
Iason yanked the burnished metal over his head and it thudded to the floor. He didn’t break off his hot, dark stare. “Here,” he said.
Ceta’s spine hit the support column, all air whooshing from her lungs. Iason reached for her belt, the familiar brush of his fingers against her bare stomach and then the tear of silk peaking her nipples.
Iason’s hot fingers, palms pushed against her ass, gripping her, lifting her. His lips brushed hers, his breath ragged, and her mouth burned. “He’s going to watch us. See me fuck you.”
“Yes.” The word escaped her on a hiss of air and her thighs tightened around his hips. She gripped his shoulders, the need for Iason to take her and for their sovereign to see, throbbing through her flesh. Alrea
dy her hips pushed against his solid erection, the increasing surge of lust causing her to bite, nip at his earlobe, neck.
Iason growled and with a sudden shift, his cock stood free. His fingers dug into her ass, positioning her, the blunt head of his cock an exquisite slide over her clitoris, then down, down… Her held breath exploded outward as he pushed deep into her body.
A guttural moan ripped her gaze to the sovereign. He’d collapsed back into his wide throne, Feodor’s living suit rippling back to expose his straining cock. His hand fisted around it. Ceta stared, her eyes finding his. The molten heat there, his raw desire pushed her hard against Iason.
He muttered into her skin and ground his hips against hers. She saw her gasp reflected in the sovereign’s eyes, in the fierce pump of his hand over his cock. “Faster.” She growled the word against his neck, wanting Feodor to hear, and thrust her hips forward, driving Iason deeper. It flushed heat through her body and her hands fisted in the thick cotton of his tunic.
Her body trembled and her teeth nipped at his ear, his jaw. Iason hissed and then his mouth took hers, their tongues tangling, fighting. Nothing else mattered. Iason crushed her against the smooth, hard pillar, his heat, his strength surrounding her as they raced toward her orgasm. The power of it thickened in her flesh with every thrust, with the fast slap of Iason’s hips against hers, as she swallowed his hard moans…and weaving through the feeling of Iason was their sovereign.
Ceta could almost feel the approach of Feodor’s release, the tightness at the base of his spine. He fisted his cock in sure fast strokes, somehow mirroring the thrust of Iason into her body. The fiery taste of her release was so close, burning up through her flesh wanting to consume her. Wanting it to consume him.
Iason’s mouth broke from hers, his breath ragged. “Ceta…”
He groaned her name. His eyes, darkened with lust, held something else and her dazed brain fought to understand. But then the buck of his hips broke all thought. “Fuck me.” Her words were almost a growl.
He crushed his eyes shut and pain lined his face. “I can’t control any of this,” he muttered. Iason opened his eyes and his emotion hit her—terror. “You’re so close.”